


Days of Saturn

by sangueuk



Series: Planets in Alignment [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Academy - It’s the winter solstice, bang in the middle of the week long Saturnalia celebrations. McCoy was hoping to keep out of trouble by working double shifts at the hospital until Captain Pike summons him for his annual review and a little festive ‘fun’. Imagine McCoy’s surprise when Cadet Kirk is also present.</p><p> </p><p>Intriguing snippet: <i>In some other universe, somewhere, maybe mid-winter festival is fun, but here – it’s fucking dangerous shit.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Days of Saturn

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to beta abigail89.
> 
>  **warnings:** While this is very much MU!lite, even in my softer version it’s a dog-eat-dog world and most sex is, well, you know…not one _hundred_ percent consensual for all parties involved. There’s also power play, implied violence and heaps of bad language.
> 
>  **A/N:** written vaguely for prompt # 103: _: Pike gives McCoy to Kirk for Christmas and it’s what they both want._
> 
> My MU is very much inspired by the Roman Empire, so instead of Christmas, we have Saturnalia! All food, gifts and decorations are authentic! ;D
> 
> This is part 3 of ‘The Planets’ series. Each is a standalone, but the dynamics between characters truly works best if you know what came before.

**Days of Saturn**

 

The quad’s too fucking quiet.

As McCoy strides across the pool of flood-lit grass, it occurs to him it’s like he’s passing through the eye of a god damned hurricane; he’s at the deceptively calm center, while all the chaos, the noise, is happening in the shadows around the sides. In some other universe, somewhere, maybe mid-winter festival is fun, but here – it’s fucking dangerous shit. It’s why he’s got one hand in his pocket wrapped around a hypo filled with a dose of tranquillizer that could fell a sehlat, and why he’s got a dagger in his boot.

Four more days he needs to keep his head down; classes are out and curfew’s temporarily dropped while cadets low on impulse control and high on alcohol or drugs continue to prowl the campus looking for the next adventure. They’re all costumed up and carrying weapons - the lunatics over-running the asylum – peachy. The sooner the week’s over and they’re all back in uniform and acting like they know their damn places again, the better.

He walks quickly past trimmed lawns and perfect little bushes decked out in gold stars and suns, and strewn with discarded clothing; they’re too small to conceal anyone wanting to ambush a passer-by but nevertheless, he quickens his pace.

He approaches the statue of the emperor at its center; some genius has seen fit to embellish it with a feather boa and an eye-patch and attached a strap-on clumsily in place so the jewel-eyed emperor’s ‘cock’ hangs down his hip. Though the vandalism’s got nothing to do with him, McCoy has sense enough to look away and hide his smirk in case someone with nothing better to do than persecute doctors minding their own damn business is watching the vid feed and decides to use it as pay-back at some point.

And this is just the trouble with Saturnalia – it’s a farce in all senses of the word. One of the age-old traditions is the reversal of roles, back when the empire was led by men in skirts, where masters ‘become’ slaves, and still those in power play act being subordinates for the festive week, harping back to some mythical golden age when Saturn ruled and all men were equal. And how the masters enjoy their play acting, their false smiles enticing cadets into insubordination during the holidays, then using it against them a week later. McCoy’s learned from observing festive fall-out over the years that no one breaks the rules in the empire and gets away with it for long, not when you’re dealing with psychopaths with long-memories, single-minded ambition, and more sharks in the pool that there are fish to eat.

Braying laughter and pounding music spill out from the open windows in the cadet dorms, and McCoy looks up to see a guy in a silver wig and dressed in drag bent over the window sill, obviously being fucked by someone the way his face is all contorted; all he can hope for on the painted wretch’s behalf is that it’s partly consensual.

He takes a sharp right along the most well-lit route to the admirals’ block, boots crunching on the gravel. He hasn’t had a chance to enjoy the festivities at all, and thinks they’re a fucking waste of time, truth be told. What he’d _like_ to be doing is exchanging gifts with Jo-Jo and reading his PADD by a real fire in a log cabin, surrounded by snow and away from all this. Well, he can dream, can’t he?

He swings his gift bag; it contains a bottle of fifteen year old Pappy Van Winkle he bought for himself as a treat for the holidays but, when he was unexpectedly summoned an hour ago, it was all he could come up with at such short notice; bringing something replicated would have just gotten Pike mad. Still, it feels like he’s giving up his first born.

Why the hell Pike, that single-minded, ruthless workaholic bastard, should choose today of all days to give him his annual performance review is beyond him. McCoy hasn’t exchanged two words with the captain since he was recruited - his last review was with Puri. To be honest, McCoy’s surprised Pike would bother with such bureaucratic trivialities, and the fact that Pike’s singled McCoy out - he doesn’t fucking like it – it’s always better to be invisible, to be left in peace. McCoy’s never fucking managed it, but he can hope, right? It can be his New Year’s Resolution: he should bleach his hair, grow a beard, and most importantly, learn to keep his mouth shut, he thinks, stepping over a pile of blood stained bedding that’s been thrown out of a window.

At the entrance to the block, he shows his comm screen with his security clearance to the surly guards on duty patently pissed to be there when everyone else is partying. How he envies them; last year he was safely ensconced in the hospital, taking on double-shifts and snatching a few hours sleep in one of the cots when he could, preferring to be holed up during Saturnalia rather than out there. He thought this year would be the same, but rosters, and making sure there are enough medics on duty to deal with the escalation in injury brought on by the bacchanal, mean nothing to a man like Pike who obviously wants to clear his desk before he heads off to wherever the fuck it is he goes to for the rest of the holidays.

In the turbo lift he breathes deeply and fiddles with the stiff collar of his dress shirt; how he wishes he had his uniform on rather than the suit he last wore when sitting in the lawyers’ office in Atlanta. But it’s one of the quirks of the festival, that everyone forgoes formal attire - to have kept his uniform on would have made him a sitting duck to any pack of bullies hanging around the academy looking for sport. He wonders idly whether Pike will be in the whole casual vibe too. He hopes not; it’s so much easier when everyone knows where they stand – all this fucking topsy-turvy fakery – the servants-are-masters bullshit just makes him nervous. There were admirals serving food in the canteen earlier in the week (food the fucking cooks prepared all the same) but it’s in ‘the spirit’, the way they give their shark smiles; they’d probably laced the food with god damned poison anyways, going by the peak in stomach cramps at the infirmary – and he imagines them taking bets on who was going to eat their spiked dishes out of the unsuspecting innocents lining up with their trays for suckling pig and peacock, roast potatoes and sweet-corn, like they’re living back in Roman times.

The lift pings and he steps out into the hall, his breath catching in his throat when he spots Jim fucking Kirk ahead, sashaying towards Pike’s office, all broad shoulders and narrow hips. Damn. It’s all he can do not to turn on his heel and dive back into the lift. What the fuck is _he_ doing here? Maybe Kirk’s involved in the review. Damn, what the hell is Pike playing at? McCoy automatically presses the record button on his comm and buttons his pocket in case it falls out. If anything’s going to happen to him, evidence might come in handy. Or it might get him killed.

Kirk’s in jeans and white t-shirt, wearing beat-up sneakers like he’s any regular college kid rather than Pike’s protégé. Yet the guards know _exactly_ who they’re in the presence of, the way they instantly snap to attention and salute him. When one of them looks over his shoulder, Kirk turns, a wide grin on his face when he sees McCoy’s there – only McCoy has no idea what that grin means. He feels a rush of blood to his cheeks and grinds his teeth in irritation. This is the most acknowledgement McCoy’s had from the bastard since that night almost a year ago when Gaila and D’Angelo abducted him and delivered him to Kirk as a birthday gift. How could any of them have known that it was what he’d _wanted_ for over a year, how he’d hoped to get close to Kirk, angling to win his protection and providing safe medical care in return. It was always going to be a gamble, and, as he’d feared, it didn’t pay off… exactly. Once Kirk got a taste, he spat McCoy out.

Yet, just a week after Kirk fucked him, McCoy received notification that his ‘application’ (though he’d made _no_ application) had been successful - Joanna Eleanor McCoy could take up a place at the elite John Fredrick Paxton Academy for girls in New York City. No explanation, nothing, but McCoy god damned _knows_ Kirk was behind it. It’s what McCoy wished for, Kirk’s protection for Joanna, thing is, and he swallows now, while he recalls what it was like being fucked by Kirk, how incredible it was, how his self-training, jerking off to images of the brat every night meant that he needed more from Kirk and hoped their first time together wasn’t to be the last –well, that part didn’t go according to plan. Kirk can have anyone. Why he’d be interested in a simple country doctor who’d just give him attitude hardly needs explanation. Gram was wrong about Kirk. Still, it makes no sense. Kirk’s not interested in McCoy, yet he’s engineered Joanna’s safe harbor. She’s away from Jocelyn, away from the predators in the city, and she’ll get the best education possible, something he wouldn’t be able to afford in a month of Sundays, and something Jocelyn didn’t have down as a priority for their daughter. She was more interested in grooming Joanna for society so she could nab some rich wolf before she’s even worn her first bra. But why Kirk should pull strings after just one fuck, well, none of it adds up.

And though Kirk’s not interested in McCoy as a fuck-toy, he wants to retain him as his personal physician; since that night, McCoy’s treated Jim, on average of once every two weeks, he’s appeared at the infirmary, or he’s received a comm in the night, with his two favorite body-guards, the long suffering D’Angelo and the deadly Orion girl. Each time, it’s been all business, so as McCoy doesn’t even bother with attempting any kind of conversation, always irritated at the flush of arousal seeing Kirk in the flesh, smelling him, brings. Kirk leers at him, but makes no advances, no knowing looks, nothing. It’s fucking confusing as hell and McCoy’s pissed that his so-called master plan’s fallen to pieces.

And now, of course, he’s crushing on Kirk more than ever, angrily jerking off to memories of their fucking. Kirk doesn’t linger, receives his treatment to knife wounds and abrasions, the slightest thing, it seems, without a wince or a thank you and leaves before McCoy’s even has time to step away from him, leaving McCoy hard, aching, confused and, yeah, pissed as hell. He’s starting to think Kirk’s famed fighting skills are exaggerated because the asshole’s there like clock-work, holding his grazed knuckles up for the regen, staring over McCoy’s shoulder. McCoy tries not to glance at Kirk’s pillow soft lips, pushing away memories of how it felt to have Kirk’s tongue in his mouth, how that was more poison-sweet than anything that happened between them that night. How that’s the one thing, the piece of information he has over Kirk that he could use against him should he ever need to. If any of the higher ups were to find out that Pike’s golden boy has a weakness for the taboo of kissing, well, he’d be toast.

Now, in the admirals’ block, Kirk acknowledges him with a nod then turns away. “What you doing here, Bones?” he says casually. “Not downtown celebrating with the rest of the geeky medics?” If only McCoy could feel this blasé around him. He lifts his chin defiantly as the familiar shiver of lust lights up his skin like it always does when he thinks about Kirk, when he’s close.

Fuck you, McCoy thinks and, even knowing that with the festival in full flight, light insubordination will be over-looked and he’d most likely get away with even this, he’s ever cautious, especially as Jo could just as easily be unexpectedly expelled from the school as get her place, though he doesn’t hide a scowl.

“You look nervous,” Kirk says smoothly, leaning in to examine McCoy’s face. “Anyone bother you on the way here?” He frowns, seriously interested.

“No, it was pretty damned quiet – cold night I guess…”

Kirk nods, satisfied, and McCoy’s eyes slide to Kirk’s suddenly impassive expression as something occurs to him. “Did you…?”

Kirk smirks as he presses his thumb to the ID disc on the door. McCoy follows him into the candle-lit room; the overwhelming smell of incense and foliage, the concessions to the season, hit his nostrils soon as the door swishes open. To his horror, he sees that Pike’s sitting in the ‘visitor’ chair, rather than where he should be, on the _other_ side of the desk. Fucking Saturnalia traditions suck ass – all of them. And he’s out of uniform too, wearing scruffy clothes in the true spirit of the festival’s obnoxious dress-up (or dress-down) tradition--worn jeans, scuffed up cowboy boots and a western shirt that looks like its been dragged behind a steer.

“Doctor,” Pike nods, rising elegantly to his feet and giving him a half-bow that McCoy just doesn’t know what to fucking do with. “Lo Saturnalia.” Pike’s steel gray eyes hold McCoy’s for a moment then he ducks his head in mock subservience, looking very pleased with himself, how ‘faultless’ his acting is, like he’s the cat playing nice just to get the mouse a little closer. “Thank you for honoring me with your presence, and Cadet Kirk, take a seat.” He smirks. No amount of polite words can obliterate the number Pike has killed to get where he is; power and authority roll off his skin like a deadly mist.

“Lo,” McCoy concedes, trying really hard not to growl and to erase any note of wariness in his voice. He salutes then his hand falls awkwardly to his side, he’s unable to not do it, but realizes from the look of amusement on Pike’s steely features that tonight at least, the gesture was unnecessary. Pike’s patently enjoying McCoy’s discomfort because he grins at Kirk, then nods to indicate McCoy take _his_ seat, the high-backed chair, well worn, made in finest leather and no doubt cost an absolute fucking fortune. He can’t remember the last time he touched the real thing– maybe not since he was in Gram’s plantation house. He rounds the desk and settles awkwardly. He can’t bring himself to rest his hands on the desk so he spreads them on his thighs, trying not to dig his nails through his suit trousers. Fuck all if he was going to wear jeans like these two and forgo all semblance of respect for their position, festival or not. It’ll all bite him in the ass later – best to stay on the safe side.

He’s intensely aware of Kirk’s presence. He hears the creak of leather as he settles on the couch to one side of the room but keeps his eyes forward. He has no idea why Kirk’s here too; reviews are generally one-on-one, allowing for the seamless shift into the giving of blow-jobs, and there’s no point getting het up about the way things are. He may be a medical genius but no one ever succeeds purely on merit, even in Starfleet. Of course he knows that Pike and Kirk are close, that they’re fuck-buddies at least, but having the extra dynamic of two alpha-males in the room makes him damned nervous.

“Read the paperwork, “ Pike says, indicating the PADD on the desk, his voice brooking no argument despite the role-reversal, seating-wise. McCoy slides the PADD closer and speed reads the report. It’s glowing. It’s been signed off by Puri too, his targets all reasonable, nothing to do with Pike who knows fuck all about medicine.

McCoy looks up, nods. “Seems fair,” he says, clearing his throat, waiting for the ‘terms and conditions’ which he knows from bitter experience always follow. Though his work speaks for itself, nothing’s simple in this twisted world. He’s unsure whether to express gratitude or not but, one look at Pike’s raised eyebrow and he says it quickly, “Thank you. Sir.” No way he’s not going to call him sir, not until the deserts of Vulcan freeze over.

“You’re my last piece of paper work, McCoy,” Pike explains, “till I finish up for the holidays, that is. I’ve got a shuttle in two hours, enough time for a shower and…” McCoy can feel Kirk’s eyes boring into the side of his head. He watches Pike unwrap his booze and nod in approval. He rests it on the coffee table. “I didn’t get you a gift, McCoy. Accept my apologies for that, won’t you?” Despite the words, there’s a decided sneer in his voice when he speaks. McCoy straightens in his ( _Pike’s_ ) chair, unsure what the best thing to say is. He swallows and feels himself flushing, knowing better than to dip his eyes and show weakness he holds Pike’s gaze then lifts a hand in a clumsy dismissive gesture.

“There are a great many cadets. Sir.”

Kirk chuckles to his side and McCoy grinds his teeth, wanting to punch the bastard who’s patently enjoying watching him squirm. Still, McCoy does his best to appear to be ignoring him. Except for the part where his nostrils flare.

Pike laughs, and it’s all McCoy can do to stop himself flinching. His heart hammers in his throat when Pike says innocently, “Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do for me not to repay you in some way.” McCoy waits dry mouthed, relieved he had time to take a shower before he set off. “Jim,” Pike says, his voice all steely charm, and there’s something very scary about how he uses his first name, “what do you suggest I do? It really isn’t right for me to show so little respect –”

“Right, sir,” Kirk says. Okay, so the first name thing doesn’t work both ways, McCoy notices, but keeps eyes front. “How about some traditional nibbles?” If there’s one thing scarier than scary fuckers who can kill you with impunity, it’s scary fuckers who pretend they’re your friends. Even so, McCoy can’t stop himself rolling his eyes at Kirk.

Pike snorts, slaps his thigh and stands, “Good plan, Jim, you and your great ideas.” Each compliment is dished out like a biscuit thrown at a pet dog. Pike moves to the communicator on the desk and holds the button down. “We’re hungry,” he says with no explanation, “leave the trolley outside the door, I’ll bring it in.” because he has to _serve_ of course. God damn bullshit. McCoy’s throat feels like he’s got a steel rope wrapped around it and he wonders how anything he tries to eat can even go down.

While they wait, Kirk reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gift for Pike, a small, clay figurine. McCoy watches as Pike palms it, examines it carefully. He looks questioningly at Kirk.

“It’s antique, sir, Roman.”

Pike swallows – it must have cost a pretty penny, McCoy thinks, though most likely someone’s life. The door chimes and Pike brings in a gold tray and rests it on the coffee table. McCoy can smell the unmistakable scent of warm spiced wine, and there’s cheese, bread, quails, salted snails and little gold chocolate stars. It would fill McCoy with a warm festive glow – if there was such a thing. Pike nods for him to join them as they stand near the couch, then pours wine and hands a cup to him and Kirk, bowing slightly as he does so. Then he picks up Jim’s gift, takes it to a shelf behind his desk and rests it next to various artifacts McCoy just knows each have a story behind them would curl your hair.

“I didn’t get you anything, Jim…” suddenly Pike’s voice is predatory, filled with intent. Kirk seems unfazed and bows his head for a second though he keeps his eyes on Pike, all fucking eyelash flutter and steel blue. Dammit, McCoy’s starting to think he hates Kirk, hate followed by shame when he feels a rush of possessiveness as he takes in this display of genuine affection between the two men. Surely they’ll kill him for this, for having seen how they are together.

“Oh, wait, maybe I did…” Pike adds and their heads turn as one to McCoy who’s midway between bringing a mouthful of quail to his lips. His eyes dart between the two of them and he rests the food on an empty plate, then wipes his fingers on a napkin. He picks up his glass of wine and knocks it back in one gulp, reaches for the flagon and pours another without asking.

“It’s all bullshit, right, McCoy? Sol Invictus, Bacchus, Juvetas…all for the great unwashed…I’d be interested to know what a man of science thinks…surely you don’t hold with the Emperor on all this sentimental, _unscientific_ b.s., right?” Pike sees he’s hesitating so adds, “Speak freely, Leonard, ‘tis the season after all.” He turns to Kirk and puts his arm around his neck. “He looks worried, doesn’t he, Jim?” Kirk doesn’t comment, only looks at McCoy with unblinking eyes, neither coming to his defense, nor joining in the interrogation.

McCoy rests his glass of wine on the table, “The Emperor deems it fitting we have a festival, and, sir—“

“Please call me Chris,”

Not in a fucking month of Sundays, no way, “I’m no expert in metaphysics or politics…now, wanna know about how to slice through the cerebral cortex, I’m your man.” He forces a grin that feels like his face is paralyzed, the amount of effort it takes to move his muscles, and he raises his glass, “Lo,” he says with as much gusto as he can manage.

“Today’s a day we can say whatever we wish with impunity, isn’t that right?” Pike says turning to Kirk and looks at him fondly. McCoy sees how their eyes catch and he feels a spike of adrenaline makes him want to punch Pike clean in the face. _Please, not jealousy_ , McCoy thinks irritably. Whatever the reason, McCoy hopes neither of them have noticed his neck flush and he bends down to pick up a snail, the pin slipping between his fingers as he pokes at the flesh. It shouldn’t be fucking hard to keep his hands steady; he’s performed surgery in more difficult conditions than this, a couple of times with a phaser held at his temple, then that time, one-handed while the other was twisted brutally behind his back… “Okay, Jim, show him how it’s done – you say something to me you normally wouldn’t dream of saying to my face!” It’s like a parlor game to him, shooting fucking fish in a barrel.

“Now, sir, that’s not fair, I can’t think of anything…should I get one of the guards in from outside?” and McCoy is taken aback at the genuine tone of the statement.

Pike shakes his head, pulls Kirk to him and kisses him on the forehead, and then begins, to McCoy’s horror to undo the buttons on his shirt. He looks away when he sees a flash of gray chest-hair, unsure how to react. “Sometimes I think Kirk here is the most loyal subject to the Empire, he’d do fucking anything, right, to win territory, mineral deposits, bring slaves back to Earth, all for the empire,” Pike says as he pulls Kirk to him and slides his hands on his shoulders, gazing right up into his face as he speaks. “Then other times I think I wouldn’t trust him anymore than a fox in a hen house. So, _are_ you loyal to me, Jim, to the end, or are you like your father, a sentimental fool who would turn on the Empire?”

Kirk doesn’t say a word, just drops to his knees and begins to undo Pike’s flies. It sends a shock of arousal through McCoy and he wishes the ground would god damn well swallow him up – fifth fucking wheel with a hard-on – oh good. He watches, riveted as Kirk sits back on his heels and looks up at Pike. He should look submissive, but somehow he doesn’t; he looks proud, like he has access to Pike in a way no one else does. McCoy thinks back to images of George Kirk and how Jim resembles his father in many ways, and it crosses his mind that maybe there was something between Pike and George. Then he dismisses it – it’s him being a foolish romantic again, something which is going to get him killed one of these days if he’s not careful. He needs to get the fuck out of there, now. Maybe Gram was right about George Kirk, right about his son too, but Pike’s the one Kirk wants – he can’t argue with what his eyes show him now, how Pike has his undivided attention.

“Anyway, McCoy here knows his manners, and I’ve re-paid him, given him this,” he indicates the platter and wine, “but I’ve got a gift for you too, Jim. Wanna see it?”

“Sure.”

McCoy leans forward very slightly, his curiosity peaked, wondering what Pike’s going to give his protégé, the man who, from what he saw when he was in Jim’s rooms, has practically no possessions which is at odds with most – trophies and fancy artifacts come with swagger and power.

Pike bites his lower lip and rests his hand on Jim’s head, and McCoy starts when the other hand points towards him. “Nice, fresh doctor, straight from the south. Whaddaya think?”

“I think you spoil me, sir.” Kirk doesn’t look his way but seems to know to get to his feet and give Pike some room.

“Hey, wait—“

Pike shoots McCoy a look which, despite his feigning being the ‘servant’ for the purposes of the fest, is cold and brimming with promise of what’ll happen to him if he protests.

“At ease, McCoy,” he says, his eyes sweeping him up and down like he’s one of the dishes on the god damned platter. At ease? Jesus, he’s been fighting the instinct to run so hard, it’s almost making him shake. A trickle of sweat begins a slow descent down his right temple and he manages not to bring his hand up to wipe it away. If he shows any fear, it’ll be worse, always is, best to get it over and done with – whatever it is they have in store for him. One on one he can handle, but two men, both competitive as hell, who knows what they’ll do to him to try and outshine each other.

“Sir—“

“—Chris…”

“Chris,” McCoy manages, “I’m due back at the hospital. It’s a busy time of year, with all the…” the raised eyebrow cuts him short, makes it quite clear he’ll be on a biobed himself, once they’ve picked up the pieces of him scattered around the campus, that is if he doesn’t stay and play whatever little game they have in store for him.

“I’ll make a call, tell them your interview over-ran, that we’re discussing your targets for the coming year.” Pike crooks a finger and indicates exactly where he wants McCoy. So he puts one foot in front of the other, like he does every day of his god damned cluster-fuck life, till he’s standing awkwardly between them. Pike looks diabolical with the candle light flickering, his pale sea-gray eyes unblinking while he regards McCoy’s face. Then he stretches out a hand and taps McCoy’s shoulder. “You don’t want to mess up that nice suit of yours,” he says, his smile baring his teeth like a fucking shark. See, the whole eye-contact thing in itself is a mine field, McCoy knows. If he stares the captain down while he undresses, McCoy might rile the guy up; on the other hand, if he looks away it shows weakness… Jesus. His irritation bubbles forward before he can stop himself.

“Well no, that would be a fucking tragedy. Sir.”

Pike’s tongue peeks out between even teeth and he laughs, which sends a shock of adrenaline through McCoy’s scalp.

McCoy frowns and brings his hands up to unbutton his jacket. “I’ve got this,” Kirk says, eyes gleaming. He steps between McCoy and Pike, takes the jacket and drapes it over the office chair.

McCoy shoots Kirk a murderous look but watches long, pale fingers rest on his chest then lets out a huff of air when Kirk unbuttons his shirt through touch alone since Kirk’s eyes are fixed on his mouth throughout now that Pike can’t see. It gives McCoy a little thrill, this private moment, and he knows damn well that Kirk’s remembering how they kissed so hungrily all those months ago and, because he’s a contrary bastard, McCoy doesn’t catch his eye and instead fixes his gaze over Kirk’s shoulders, irritated by how the smell of the man, shower-fresh and toothpaste clean, has him hard already. Kirk’s fingertips brush ever so slightly along his skin, warm and a little rough, as he eases the shirt down McCoy’s shoulders and leaves it there, right above his elbows so he’s trussed up like a fucking turkey.

McCoy shifts from one foot to the other, flushing beetroot under both their gazes, then glances down when Kirk unbuttons his pants, and eases them down over his hips so he’s exposed, embarrassed by how his cock’s staining against the fabric of his underwear. He must look ridiculous but neither of his captors comment, just exchange heated looks, until Kirk turns to Pike and removes the captain’s open shirt for him, all the way, tossing it onto the floor. It’s a little Saturnalian gesture of defiance; Pike raises an eyebrow at this and Kirk grins widely. How he manages to make every move look like he’s totally in charge of things must be some kind of gift, McCoy thinks, wishing to hell they’d just get on with it already so he can escape.

Kirk turns his back on McCoy and kneels in front of Pike again, running his hands down Pike’s taut stomach till he reaches the buckle of his jeans and loosens it; he looks at McCoy over his shoulder, still standing there half-dressed like an idiot, and pulls Pike’s belt free in one movement, tossing it to the floor too, the buckle clunking. The candles flicker in the draft, and settle again, Kirk’s short hair glowing tawny gold in the light, his skin warm and solid.

Kirk’s the one wearing the most clothes now and he makes no move to undress himself at all, instead moving to unbutton Pike’s jeans. The captain smiles, his expression amused as Kirk eases his hand inside, tugging Pike’s underwear down so the elastic nestles under his balls and his cock’s free. It’s too god damned big for McCoy’s liking and he decides he needs to breathe deeply, relax or this isn’t going to be pleasant. Then his own cock’s twitching despite himself when he watches in awe as Kirk rests his forehead in the hairs at the base of Pike’s cock. Pike lets out a low moan of approval and reaches for Kirk’s ears, fingers running gently through the short hairs, the skin behind, caressing his ear lobes as Kirk’s mouth descends slowly and surely down his length, pink lips stretched wide, eyes closed and McCoy knows now that he would fucking kill to feel the same thing around his own cock.

He moves to unzip his boots, tucking the dagger deep inside the toe, hoping they’re too caught up in the moment to mind that he’s broken Kirk’s little tableau. He steps out of his pants, leaving them where they fall, removes his socks and drops his shirt to the floor. He keeps his underwear on, not wanting to look eager in any way though, truth be told, the sight of these two men in the peak of physical fitness, Kirk lapping at Pike’s length; it’s making all his blood rush south.

It crosses his mind that it’s kind of weird that this is the second time he’s become a gift to Kirk. Is it fate, or chance? Or is Kirk telegraphing somehow – so that those who know him well can pick up he’s interested? McCoy instantly dismisses the idea; he has no reason to think that Kirk would find him any more appealing than any other man or woman who crosses his path. Kirk’s sexual appetite is legendary so he would never bother disguising sexual interest; it’s only fleeting, after all. A man like Jim Kirk can have anyone he wants – he wouldn’t even have to ask on that level. Why, in fact, would anyone think his interest would be of any other kind? McCoy wouldn’t be surprised if Pike’s making this up as he goes along. Was McCoy really the last item on Pike’s to-do list? Or is it that Pike wants McCoy too and just thought a threesome would be fun?

Dammit, he’s reading too much into things. Officers in Starfleet are nothing if not hedonists; as long as desire of any kind doesn’t stand in the way of their staying on the top of the heap, they’ll follow their appetites wherever they lead. Then it crosses his mind that maybe Kirk’s had _others_ brought to him as a gift; he’s so pissed off by this he lets out a growl before he can stop himself. Two pairs of wolf eyes look his way, the Alpha’s and then Kirk’s wherever the hell he rests in this coalition, or hierarchy. He releases Pike’s dick with an obscene slurp, his chin covered in saliva which he does nothing to wipe away. McCoy remembers what it was like to have Kirk’s dick in his mouth that night, how it felt like…fuck, like his dream had come true, which in a sick twisted way was exactly what it was.

“I don’t want to interrupt or anything, _sirs_ , but I got places to be,” McCoy hears himself say, his voice a dry croak.

“Top of the desk would be a good start, McCoy,” Kirk says rising.

“What? You can’t be fucking serious?”

Kirk’s tongue flicks across his lower lip then he guides McCoy’s only mildly resistant body into position so his ass is resting on the edge of the desk. The wood’s cool against his skin and he purses his lips at the discomfort. “Up, McCoy.”

“God dammit, what’s wrong with that nice couch?”

“That’s the festive spirit, doctor!” Pike grins, jacking himself off idly as he takes in McCoy on the desktop. He must look ridiculous exposed like that, trying not to fidget, his cock against his thigh, and still the only one with not a thread on; Pike’s got his cock sticking out of the front of his jeans, seemingly in no hurry to undress himself.

The hairs on the back of McCoy’s neck twitch as Kirk moves out of sight behind him and climbs up on the desk, settles behind McCoy with his legs either side of McCoy’s, the denim rough against his skin. He slides his arms around McCoy’s waist to pull McCoy’s legs apart, as if he’s laying out a dish for Pike, then rests his chin on McCoy’s shoulder, the rasp of stubble sending a shiver through him makes his cock twitch. Damn, he hopes neither of the bastards have noticed.

“Your lucky day, doc. What you’re going to get doesn’t happen the other fifty-one weeks of the year,” Kirk says as he slides his hands down McCoy’s shoulders, then to his arms and clamps them tight around his biceps, his breath hot against his ears. “And I get to watch.” Watch what? “You got any objection, doc?” He’s not calling him Bones here, that must mean something, right? Even though Kirk hasn’t spared him a word or a glance, other than in the capacity of doctor-patient in eleven months…Kirk doesn’t want to share that, his nick-name with Pike? McCoy shakes the hope away; he’s done what he needed to do: Joanna’s safe, Kirk doesn’t seem to want anything more from him, and he needs to get the hell out of here, get this over with.

Pike comes closer and leans forward, so his hands are on Kirk’s thighs as his mouth descends towards McCoy’s cock which is fucking bursting. And yeah, they’ve all had to make their way up through the ranks, even Captain Pike with all his good breeding and the connections that brings with it, he’s had to suck dick just like the rest of them, and whatever nostalgic trip he’s on here, in his role-play for the festivities, the way his tongue flickers out, the way Pike lets out a little puff of appreciative breath when his lips slide a good way down McCoy’s shaft, shows he’s had a lot of practice as well as prove he fucking likes sucking cock.

McCoy leans back into Kirk, aroused by the sight of a captain blowing him. It’s unbelievable, and yeah, this is a gift alright--the drag of Pike’s teeth just the right side of painful; the little flicks of his tongue sending shocks of heat branching from his cock, to his thighs and back, till he lets out a grunt and throws his head back, worried he’ll come right into his mouth.

Kirk lets go of his arms. “Stay still, Bones,” he whispers, and rolls his chin into McCoy’s shoulder till his mouth’s near his jaw, the heat of it, the potential that he might lay those lips on his face, his mouth again bringing him dangerously close to orgasm.

Pike hasn’t laid a finger on him yet – not remotely interested in making any connection with McCoy other than how he’s toying with his dick, and he must have picked up how tense McCoy’s become because Pike lets go and stands so his eyes can drill into McCoy’s face. His lips are puffy, slick with saliva and pre-cum and McCoy lowers his gaze, panting, waiting for what whim will cross his mind next.

“Get him ready for me, Jim,” he says idly and he removes his boots and finally kicks his god damned jeans off and walks to retrieve his drink his cock swaying as he sits on the couch. Kirk nods and opens a drawer behind him. Perspiration’s broken out on McCoy’s temples and he looks down as Kirk crouches down and lubes up his fingers then shoves them straight in rough and with no ceremony – how unlike that night together when the care he took prepping McCoy was so drawn out it was akin to torture.

“Jesus, fuck, Kirk,” McCoy can’t help saying, secretly loving the burn. Maybe not so secret because if his cock could sing, it damn well would be now, the way it’s leaking below him. He shifts his ass up on the desk and gasps as Kirk twists and works his fingers in loosening him and he wonders how the hell this is a present for Kirk when it’s Pike who’s going to get the prize, so to speak.

He looks down at Kirk and their eyes catch, making his face burn; he parts his lips and Kirk blinks once, and mirrors the almost imperceptible movement. It’s a message of some kind, McCoy just fucking knows it, and his belly does a little flutter at this private communication. Kirk works a third finger in and drags his fingers along McCoy’s prostate. Again the romantic in him fucks with his head – Kirk didn’t have to god damn well do that, did he? It’s more care than Pike’s shown him, the blow-job itself seeming more of a game than designed for McCoy’s pleasure. Cool air settles between his thighs when Kirk withdraws his hand and he bends to wipe his fingers on McCoy’s shirt.

“Hey!”

He’s cut short by Pike returning to position and huffing McCoy’s hips up so he’s forced to lie back on the desk. He watches Kirk over his shoulder, sees him on the couch watching, eyes burning blue but face impassive so that he almost forgets to concentrate on relaxing when Pike begins to breach him. Okay, seems like Pike’s reverted to type, he watches McCoy’s face as he pushes in and McCoy scowls, irritated by how he’s liking this more than he should be.

He glances over at Kirk again, thinking about how it felt when Kirk was fucking him, images he’s replayed countless times since that night. He lets out a grunt as Pike begins to thrust, still not sparing him one touch or caress now the charade of master-as-slave is over. He knows he can’t reach down and touch himself and in a way, he wouldn’t want to give Pike the satisfaction.

He wonders what the hell Jim’s getting out of this, from Pike’s point of view. Still these higher-ups watch each other fucking as often as doctors watch their peers at work – showing about as little shame as wolves mating and, of course, he must have fucked Kirk numerous times. It’s weird to even imagine that, Kirk cowed by anyone. But then again, the way Pike is around him, he doubts Kirk’s as detached as he is with McCoy who might as well be a pleasure doll the amount of interest Pike’s showing in him. Kirk on the other hand seems to be getting bored or something because he rises and strolls over with his drink in his hand.

McCoy can tell he’s hard, there’s a decided bulge in his jeans, but other than that, Kirk looks composed enough, though McCoy fancies there’s a slight twitch in his left eye. He decides to experiment, to observe if indeed he affects Kirk. So he loosens the hold on his control a little, allowing his grunts out rather than biting his tongue, canting his hips to meet Pike’s thrusts. Pike’s eyes snap open and he bares his teeth in pleasure. “You like that, McCoy, like being fucked by a captain?” Why they all talk like kids in the schoolyard once they’ve got their dicks inside you, McCoy will never know.

“Yeah, I’m real… _fuck_ …selective about who throws me across their desk… _shit_ …” he huffs out, turning his head to look at Kirk who places his glass on the desk behind McCoy’s head then curves his fingers on Pike’s shoulder. Pike smiles fondly, then closes his eyes again to lose himself in his own world of can-do-whatever-the-fuck-he-wants.

Now that Pike can’t see, McCoy focuses on Kirk, shamelessly eye-fucks him, though he’d deny it. He bites at his bottom lip, pursing them as he huffs out each time Pike hits deep, he can see that Kirk’s breathing more heavily, that and how fucking shot his pupils are the only indication of how turned on he is by the spectacle. There’s a furrow between his eyebrows, like he’s assessing McCoy all along, and McCoy thinks he won’t be able to hold back much longer, the sight of Kirk, the man he’s jerked over for over two years now, too damned much so he’s going to…

Then -- what the? -- Pike’s pulled out, just when McCoy was so close.

Pike turns to face Jim, takes Jim’s wrist and guides his hand to wrap around his cock. McCoy watches incredulous while Kirk finishes Pike off, until pulses of come hit McCoy’s belly and chest. McCoy knows better than to take himself in hand.

“Nice work, McCoy, “ Pike says over his shoulder, turning Jim in his arms and sliding his hands under his t-shirt. “Jim and I need to talk classified stuff before I leave – so you better be going—“

“You fucking kidding me?” He gets up off the desk with as much dignity as he can muster, his cock flagging already.

“Now why would I be kidding, McCoy?” Pike’s voice is steel and any pretence at Saturnalian charm utterly purged. “Get the fuck out of here before I forget my festive manners…” He kicks McCoy’s clothes across the room. “You can get dressed outside – mind that nice ass of yours doesn’t get pinched by the thugs outside, k?”

McCoy shoots Kirk a furious look, but again, Kirk seems utterly complicit in any whim of Pike’s his face even, unquestioning. They either act as one, which means that any ounce of humanity he was delusional enough think he saw in the man is a farce, or Kirk is kow-towing so damned low, he’s not the man McCoy thought he was. Fuck, and who the hell is he to point the finger? Who can have any integrity in this society?

He picks up his boots, reaches in to conceal the dagger before he puts them on and stills when it’s not there. He could have sworn…but the door’s open already, the guards waiting to goad him when he leaves, he needs to get fucking dressed. He picks up his socks and wipes the come off his chest with them and tosses them into the recycler behind the desk. Gathers his clothes and strides out naked without another word exchanged

+++

“Well, Jim?” Pike pulls on his jeans and moves to the table, picking at the bowls of food idly.

Kirk’s still hard; the sight of a debauched McCoy, that fucking beautiful mouth of his, those dark eyes hooking him in, had been almost enough to make him come in his pants. He feels no bitterness towards his mentor and superior officer – what’s just passed between them is a lesson; everything with Pike always is – and Kirk wants to learn. He stands to attention, hands behind his back watching Pike chew. “I’m not hungry, sir.”

Best to let Pike lead this so Kirk remains non-committal. He ignores the way his cock’s straining in his jeans, proud of himself for covering up how he wanted to pull Pike off McCoy, how he suppressed the base instinct to stake his claim, but self-denial is Kirk’s mantra – it’s what Winona’s taught him, and he never questions her, knows that if she’d been born a man, she’d be the most powerful individual in the Empire. So he never over-eats, survives on just a few hours sleep a night, keeps himself honed to one goal only – power – and allowing no one, no thing to gain or have power over him other than his own will.

This is why he’s kept away from Bones all this time. He thinks about him daily, jerks off over him, superimposes that grouchy, handsome face over every man or woman he’s fucked since, has given up on treating himself for the numerous minor injuries he sustains from hand-to-hand, has had him make up a mix of anti-allergens so he’s at his absolute physical peak and looks the invincible force he is. He wants Bones and he means to have him soon as they get assigned once they graduate. Pike will help – he’s counting on it; he just hasn’t broached the subject yet – it’s too soon.

“They’ll use him against you, Jim.”

Kirk blinks. “Use who, sir?”

“Come on, Jim, I know you better than anyone. Sure, I had a head start with your dad, and you share so many of his mannerisms…incredible bastard, so yeah, I can read you”

“Who, me or my father? Sir.”

“George. I’m very fond of you, Jim, but George…” His voice trails off and Kirk watches him swallow a large mouthful of wine then curl his lips. It’s gone cold. “George was… special.”

Kirk feels that curious twist of pride and shame when he thinks about his father, feels his cheeks color a little.

“You’re learning,” Pike continues, “I’ve seen how you cover up pain. I’ve seen you in the booth the way you stare down your ‘punisher’ even while your face twists in agony. You can hide how you feel, Jim, but you need to work on it. McCoy’s something else…special too…” He peers at Kirk’s face for a reaction and he gets none. “He’s brilliant, talented, charmingly primitive in his sentiments, and he runs his mouth, though he was pretty restrained here, no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve watched Vulcans under torture, right?”

“Of course, sir.” It’s basic training.

“So you’re aware of some of the techniques they use to hide their emotions but you have to go a step further, Jim, it’s not enough to hide emotion, that’s the Vulcan way. To stay ahead of the game you’ve got to transform them, so on the outside you look like you’re feeling something else.”

“Yes sir.”

“You want to keep McCoy, you’re going to have to stop with the possessive looks.”

So that was his lesson. Pike fucked McCoy because he’s somehow worked it out, found out about his interest in him. How? He’s going to have to have a word with Cupcake – or maybe he’s too obvious…Gaila…? Pike licks his lips, tosses what’s left of a quail onto the platter. “Others are going to want a piece of that pretty ass of his.” Kirk feels a twitch in his temple. “You might even have to trade it on occasion.” Kirk keeps his eyes on the bowl of snails, the smells of the food suddenly making him feel claustrophobic.

“Thank you, sir.”

Pike glances at the chrono. “I’ve got to shower. We’ll touch-base when I get back – think about what I said, Jim.”

“Of course, sir.” Kirk salutes and leaves.

+++

McCoy sighs in relief when the doors swish shut behind him and he stays any thoughts the guards might have about having a bit of fun with him by leaning right into the taller of the two’s personal space, and hissing, “I’ve killed for less than that look you’re giving me. I can do things with poisons you’ve only seen in movies, kid.”

The guard raises an eyebrow at him, folds his arms and leans on the wall to watch McCoy walk towards the lift. Fuck all if he cares if he’s naked. Dignity doesn’t mean fuck – it’s relative and he feels no more self conscious in front of these guys than he would do before a pack of dogs.

He gets dressed hurriedly in the lift, leaving his shirt un-tucked, buttoning up his jacket against the cold.

While curfew’s suspended for the week, the minutes after twenty-three hundred hours are like some magical barrier at this time of year - cadets save their best misdemeanors for then. He needs to be quick; it’s a fifteen minute walk back to his room; it’s going to be tight but he should make it okay. As he leaves the building, as he expected, it’s quiet, then he hears fire crackers going off somewhere, and prays no one thinks it would be a ‘amusing’ to throw some his way. Damn, he should have taken a cab.

He walks briskly, head held high, taking just the one detour when he hears a fight in full swing round the corner. He thinks if he looks he’ll have to intervene, and then he’ll as likely get himself killed. Dammit, he’ll get home, take a shower, jerk off thinking about Kirk again (because routines comfort him), then he’ll get a cab to the infirmary and he won’t come out again until the 26th of December when all this chaos is over and the world’s back to its usual, back-stabbing _ordered_ perils.

McCoy makes a whole heap of New Year’s resolutions when he’s in the shower, washing come off himself, resisting jerking off because he doesn’t want to think about Pike in any way, doesn’t want to think about anyone like that other than Jim Kirk. All his promises are based around purging himself of his self-inflicted Kirk-crush, and this is a good first step, right? The fact that even though he’s half hard, he’s using his hands to wash his _hair_ , god dammit.

He bites his lip and this brings back memories of Kirk’s lips on his all those months ago, how they broke the taboo together, how desperately they both wanted this, to kiss, to suck on each other’s tongues, how sweet Kirk tasted, how hot his breath was. So if McCoy’s hand strays down his belly towards his erection, it’s no big deal because this is the last time, and if he doesn’t come after this evening’s shenanigans it just wouldn’t be right – he’ll get vasocongestion. He has to take care of his health, no one else will, right?

There must be something in the stars tonight, Saturn giving it to Venus or something, because he’s moments away from coming when his door chimes. He considers ignoring it, but then the thought that it might be a medical emergency moves him to action and he runs for the door still dripping wet with a hand towel held round his hips.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Kirk cocks his head and his eyes sweep McCoy head to toe. “You could have an accident walking around wet on slippy floors, Bones.” The skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles and McCoy feels a surge in his belly of god knows what. Must be the snails.

“What do you want, Kirk?” He steps back so Kirk can come through the door and he runs a hand across his sopping hair where it’s falling into his eyes.

“You forgot this!” Kirk says reaching into his coat and pulling out McCoy’s comm. It was in his pocket – what the hell? Kirk must have searched through when he was, um, ‘distracted’ with Pike. “I took the liberty of deleting some white-noise shit that came out when you were recording your review earlier. I didn’t think you’d mind.” He tosses the comm onto McCoy’s desk. “Dagger’s here too.” Another thud on the desk. “ I’ll keep the hypo – what was it?”

“Tranquillizer,” McCoy says quietly.

“Strong?”

“Oh yeah…”

“Great. Thanks.” Kirk’s voice is bright, as he removes his coat from over his arm, searches in another deep pocket and brings out the bottle of whiskey. “It’s not Pike’s thing – he gave it to me, then I thought, well, more fun if we share it, huh?” He looks directly into McCoy’s eyes. “This shit strong, too?”

McCoy swallows as Kirk advances towards him. He nods dumbly.

“There’s a pattern emerging, Bones. You want to watch those – patterns get you into traps. You need to work at being unpredictable.” Their faces are inches away.

“Looks like—” Fuck, he smells amazing and the air’s electric between them as much desire on both sides now Kirk’s not hiding anything. He feels a surge of joy that makes him scowl reflexively when Kirk drags a finger down the furrow between McCoy’s eyebrows. He kind of hates the way Kirk just does that, leans into people’s personal space, no fucking respect, he thinks, as the finger bumps down his nose, then stops at his lower lip, touching the soft, moist flesh.

“I’m a very patient man,” Kirk says thoughtfully.

“How’d you figure that?”

The only movement is rise of fall of his chest, and he’s acutely aware of the heat of Kirk’s skin, his own breath leaving his nostrils in erratic little puffs as he tries to hide how fucking turned on he is.

Kirk smirks, his eyes holding McCoy’s while his thumb pushes into his mouth, and the other pulls McCoy’s hand away from the towel he’s holding round his waist, flicking the fabric aside like he’s cracking a whip, leaving him exposed. McCoy bites Kirk’s skin, telling himself to hold back, to make Kirk work a little – it’s what he likes, but dammit, he just can’t help it.

“It was …interesting…seeing Pike touch you…” he hisses, his hand leaving McCoy’s mouth and sliding to the back of his head. McCoy resists, pulls against it, partly because he’s irritated by how he can’t hide the want, annoyed, too, that Kirk thinks he can just fucking touch him like this, whenever the whim takes him.

“Interesting? Enjoy the little show?” The last thing Kirk looked was interested – if it’s true, well, Kirk’s better than he thought; it’s the most detached he’s ever seen a man with an erection.

“I wouldn’t say ‘enjoy’,” Kirk concedes, his eyes dark, boring into McCoy’s. His own hands are in fists by his sides. McCoy can’t hide his erection but he’s damned if he’s going to encourage the horny bastard. Kirk slides his hands smoothly down McCoy’s shoulders, down his biceps, past his elbows to his wrists and then he spreads McCoy’s arms like wings. McCoy resists as much as he can but the scrawny kid is a lot stronger than he looks and he manages in one move to swing McCoy round so he’s pressing him up against the door and his feet are between McCoy’s. McCoy leans his head back, bares his throat even as he protests.

“Would that have made it more amusing? If I’d enjoyed it?”

Kirk narrows his eyes, lets go of McCoy’s hands. “Pike’s gift to me wasn’t as simple as you think it was. I don’t need a good fuck, I can get that anywhere, anytime. I barely need to ask.”

“Bully for you, big guy,”

“You know I’m only letting this lippy shit go because it’s the season, right?” Kirk presses his groin against McCoy’s and fuck, it takes all the will power he can muster not to mash his lips into Kirk’s they’re so fucking pink and…Jesus, will he _ever_ stop talking?

“If you say so. What did you mean ‘patient’ anyways?”

Kirk shrugs, steps back a little and looks down at McCoy’s erection, back up to his face. “I want you serving alongside me on the _Enterprise_. I was prepared to wait until then but things have changed.”

Damn right they have. McCoy walks his fingers to Kirk’s belt buckle and unhooks it, works open the buttons and slides his hand into the tight, hot space. Kirk’s scalding to the touch, the damp tip of his cock touching McCoy’s wrist as he works his hand in; he purposefully doesn’t make a circle with his fingers, wants Kirk dissatisfied even as he’s touched. Kirk slides his hands behind McCoy grabs his ass cheeks and pinches hard, his eyes screwing shut.

“How have they changed, Jim?” McCoy says into his ear.

Kirk grabs his jaw. “Put it like this: anyone else tries anything with you, I’ll fucking tear their heart out, make them eat it piece by piece.” His words are like acid, hitting McCoy’s face in a shower of saliva.

“Guess no one better try, eh? And they won’t if they know I’m with you.” He rolls Kirk’s cock around in his hand, tugs at the fabric of his jeans till he gets the message, and helps him by lowering them to mid thigh himself. Their cocks are flush against each other, but McCoy still only holds on to Kirk’s, enjoying the temporary power he has over him too much to change anything just yet.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Kirk concedes, his voice laced with irritation. McCoy knows he needs to seal this deal now, before Kirk changes his mind so he uses his free hand to hold on to the back of Kirk’s neck and draw him close, closer till there’s a whisper’s distance between their mouths.

“Show me,” he says and Kirk leans in, presses his mouth to his breathing erratically as McCoy continues to work his hand up and down, slowly, teasingly. His lips feel dry, soft, fucking perfect. His breath comes out in hot little puffs in time with the rhythm of McCoy’s hand between them. “Go on, Jim, make the leap—“

“Just shut up,” Kirk growls and bites clumsily at McCoy’s lower lip, his tongue sweeping across, his kisses fervent, hungry, sloppy and wet – fucking amazing. He sags against McCoy, allowing him to control the pace both with the way he’s jerking him off and with the kissing. as McCoy’s tongue curls against his, soothing and gentle until they settle into a softer, less desperate to and fro, like they both know there’s no panic until, finally, McCoy feels Jim bucking up into his hand, drawing his tongue into himself, and Jim comes in a hot, wet shudder, their breath mingling, their hearts beating hard against each other, Jim’s arms tightening around him so he almost can’t breathe. McCoy hasn’t come, again, but he’s more concerned with whether or not Jim will pull away now, like last time, whether everything he said was just talk.

As he feared, Kirk loosens his hold on him and McCoy watches in bitter resignation as he steps out of his clothing. “You can take a shower before you go,” he says gruffily, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

Jim looks confused for a second. “You’re throwing me out?”

“I thought…” McCoy leans back against the wall takes in the wicked gleam in Jim’s eye, watching open-mouthed as he drops to his knees.

“Remember what I said about being unpredictable, Bones?”

Surely not? But Jim’s got his hand tight around the base of McCoy’s fit-to-bursting cock, much denied for hours now. “Remind me—“ he stutters,

“It’s the longest night tonight, remember? And I’ve got no better plans than a bit of festive indulgence – so you knock yourself out, be as lippy and disobedient as you like here, and I’ll give a good old master’s seeing to. Sound good?”

Jim swallows him whole and McCoy swears to some ancient old god or other that the stars he sees behind his eyelids as he comes into Jim’s mouth are all golden, every last one of them.

 

THE END

 

 

 

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End file.
